


Rewriting time (or not)

by NovaNara



Series: Let's write Sherlock (mostly too late) [4]
Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AO3 must count the notes, Angst, Drug Addict Sherlock, Gen, John has a bad day, Kinda, Revenge, Spoilers, The story IS 1895 words according to my word processor, Time Travel, but they don't count, do they?, if you've not watched Dr. Who Ninth to Eleventh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 09:36:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/924789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovaNara/pseuds/NovaNara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor brings John along on a trip. No leisure at all, but they'll manage to correct the timeline (hopefully). </p>
<p>Fic is better than the summary, I promise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rewriting time (or not)

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: nothing mine, everything is property of BBC, Moffat, Gatiss, and (Sherlock and co.) originally Conan Doyle. 
> 
>  
> 
> A.N. For the Lets’ write Sherlock challenge 4: a fic of exactly 1895 words, the last being “obviously”. In 1895 H. G. Wells published The Time Machine, so this became a Dr. Who crossover. ;-) Spoilers for Ninth to Eleventh Doctor Who (which you should really have watched already, anyway: it’s Moffat/Gatiss and good). Unbritpicked, unbetaed, and I can’t say I’m entirely satisfied with it, but once reached 1895 words I wasn’t going to mess further with the text. Lots of OOC probably, sorry about that.

John wakes up to the distinct feeling something’s wrong. Opening his eyes to see, instead of his wardrobe, a blue police box cements that. What did Sherlock slip him this time? And how? He hasn’t been suspiciously kind recently.  Oh. Perhaps he’s still asleep after all.

The Doctor (the one from Gallifrey, 11.0) bounds out, for once not unreasonably enthusiastic, but looking worried. Couldn’t John have a nice hallucination, for a change?

“John Watson, right?” the Time Lord asks.

“Yeah, coming,” he replies. Well, being abruptly roused and expected to go on an adventure is nothing new. Speaking of which…he takes his gun. Just in case. The Doctor grimaces. “Army doctor,” he reminds the alien “and it’s not like I’m asking you to fire it. Let’s go?”. He trusts Sherlock to stop him from hurting anyone with that, if he’s drugged. The git would be monitoring him, after all. For science.

The Doctor concedes (then it’s BIG trouble) and John is allowed inside the Tardis. “She’s beautiful,” he whispers. The Doctor’s eyebrow rises in surprise. “And bigger on the inside, yeah. I knew already, I’m kind of  your fan,” John adds. “Can we take Sherlock too, please?” he inquires.    

“No! There’s been a deal, and someone’s trying to rewrite time – his time, and…” the Doctor explains quickly.

“…he would cause an implosion by touching himself, or manage to evoke those pesky Reapers somehow. Yeah. Probably,” John finishes for him. The Doctor pouts.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to be rude and interrupt you. Just, if he’s in danger, can we leave now?” he urges.

“Yeah, of course,” the alien agrees, starting the ship. “You’d be a good companion,” he comments, almost as an afterthought. And he’d be: helps focus, loyal to a fault, brave…

“Sorry but I’m already taken,” John answers, then rewinds the words in his mind and throws in hastily, “it’s not like it sounds! Not…couple-y. But one mad genius is quite enough to deal with, thank you. Where’s your companion, by the way?”.

“Clara’s a fan of your blog, she said she didn’t want spoilers,” the Doctor replies, clearly disappointed.

“Oops…sorry you’re stuck with me, then. Pass my thanks, if it’s not too much trouble,” John says.

 They land just then, and as soon as they’re out, John’s eyes find the still form of a ten years younger Sherlock curled in a nearby alley. He runs.

 

A man prowls towards them. That’s the right word. “My employer’s entertaining the next British government. Showing him the ropes, so to speak. Since he’s been there, done that. He’ll be sending a signal to your…screwdriver if you want to go and relive the good memories together,” he relates, with a leer and a slight hesitation that shows he really doesn’t understand the screwdriver bit.

Oh. So Mycroft’s held up. No help from there. The message makes the Doctor run like a man  possessed. Again, no help.

 

Sherlock is barely breathing, and John is terrified, but that’s how he works best. He’s dialing for an ambulance almost without conscious input, surveying his friend to make sure he keeps being alive, if only just.

“Don’t bother,” the stranger barks, “they won’t be able to do anything. We’ve given him something that doesn’t even exists in this time. And the little fucker was so eager to try something new.”

This John can easily believe. Sherlock would, of course. Zero self-preservation. His blood turns to ice. 

“He’s not going to die,” he says anyway, “he’s _not_.” “Do you hear me, Sherlock? I _forbid_ you to die!” John hisses. Desperate. He’d will Sherlock well, if he could.

“Just the opposite,” the man snarls, “the bastard has no business being alive. Thinks he can get away with surviving, does he? He can’t!”

John wants to scream back, or better sock him, but he won’t leave Sherlock’s side (he looks like he could code anytime) and you don’t scream around patients. So he hisses instead, “What did he do to you?”.

“He took Jim!” the man positively roars. “You gotta love a sniper, remember? That was me. And now Jim is gone!”

John is feeling vaguely ill himself now. Moriarty. Figures every calamity in their lives ties back to Moriarty somehow. Of course he remembers, the pool wasn’t that long ago…Wait, did the…sniper he supposes, say Moriarty lost? Is that spoilers? It won’t be if he can’t keep Sherlock alive now, anyway. John will never meet him. Will he forget him like in the cracks in the universe arc of the Doctor? He doesn’t want that. He wants to be Amy Pond at the very least (not Sherlock’s father in law, though; that’d be _weird_ ).                

And how and why did Moriarty’s man get to travel in time first? That’s _unfair_. The sniper is still looking at them (enjoying the bloody show of his friend’s _agony_ ) and John is doctor enough to need only half his brain to check on Sherlock, so he might as well engage the enemy. In conversation if nothing else. It keeps him from feeling the horrific helplessness of all this. “What does your employer get from you?” he inquires trough gritted teeth, because if this man wants revenge, what’s the other half of the deal the Doctor mentioned? Can he make them break the agreement somehow? Undo this?

“A flying fuck,” the sniper replies, “this all is nothing more than bait, Johnny. Apparently _that_ is a good man, and destroying good people – or enslaving, which should be next on his list – warrants him a date with his boyfriend. It’s all.”

This is insane, and Sherlock is…and he can’t…and what is John supposed to do now?

“Jim would have liked him – my new contractor,” the other muses. “Great minds think alike and all that. He let me have one dose of antidote. What would you do for Sherlock to get it now, doctor? Would you let me shoot you?” he reveals with a smirk. It would fulfill the final problem – Sherlock lives, John dies. For a start. Jim will be happy in Hell.  

_And you’re telling me **now**? _ John internally seethes. The sniper expects him to agree – he’d die for Sherlock, the pool made that quite clear – but this is Captain John Watson on a very bad day. A gun fires, and the sniper falls dead before he realizes what’s happening. A quick search, and John gets two results (more drug and the antidote, obviously), one vial of a transparent liquid and a pill. Fuchsia. It’s the bloody Hope case all over again (down to the pink), only worse, because John doesn’t have Sherlock’s brain, and _he should have left the bastard shoot_. Then he looks at Sherlock, who is in no condition to swallow anything. If this game is the new employer’s idea, and he’s like Jim, the game would be fair. Sadistic, but fair. They won the five pips round after all. Kind of. He searches Sherlock next and voila, one brand new syringe. Thank God for bad habits. He injects him with the vial’s content, praying fervently.

It works. Sherlock’s breath gets stronger and in a few moments it’s evident he won’t die. Not this time. He’s uneasy, though, stirring weakly and whimpering. Well, he can’t be comfortable like that, and now John’s not afraid that the littlest stimulus might overstrain him, so he gently eases him into his own lap.

“Soft,” Sherlock mumbles. Soon he’s whimpering again, so John cards his fingers between dark curls.

“You’re brilliant, Sherlock, so don’t you dare do anything that daft again,” John whispers to him. Not that Sherlock hears him, probably. “The world needs you,” he continues, “hell, I need you, so don’t you dare die. Or even try to get yourself killed like usual. At least not when you’re alone.” He’ll take responsibility for Sherlock’s welfare when he can get at him, but he needs Sherlock to mind his own timeline now (it’s been disturbed, and John is uncomfortable) and just survive. Until John.  

Sherlock understand the last sentence, at least, because he murmurs, “Always am.”

John’s heart shatters, but his caressing hand doesn’t falter. “You won’t,” he assures, “you won’t be alone, Sherlock. I promise. Don’t delete this, please. You’re not going to remain alone, _I’ll be there_ , Sherlock. I will.”       

“Stay,” Sherlock mutters, clutching whatever he finds within reach before eventually surrendering to unconsciousness.    

 

“He’ll be okay when he wakes up,” the Doctor says (finally back!) at John’s wordless presenting him pill and vial.  “Time to go, John,” he urges, very pointedly _not_ looking at Moran’s body.

Sherlock’s asleep, but he’s still holding onto John’s jumper and the human doctor has never looked less likely to move. Willingly at least. He looks like he’d happily stay and keep Sherlock out of trouble or…well, alive, for the next ten years or so. Which he could, but then? Paradox?

“You don’t really want to do that,” the Time Lord remarks quietly, “if you spend the next ten years here who’s going to be with _your_ Sherlock?”.

John frowns, but doesn’t answer. Even setting an appointment with the Tardis (which she wouldn’t keep), coming back to Sherlock ten years older would make him go crazy. He still doesn’t move.

“Mycroft’s coming right now,” the Doctor says, and John starts quietly, gently disentangling from Sherlock’s hold. It’s not optimal, but he can trust Mycroft with his brother. To a point.

“He’s the one who tipped the scales, you know? My…acquaintance always tended to underestimate humans,” he reveals. John gapes (a little): Mycroft Holmes 1, Time Lords 0. Apparently.

“I had to reassure him a bit; the kid didn’t show it the same way most of you do, but he was clearly beyond himself with worry,” the alien remarks.

John halts brusquely at the Tardis’ door, hissing, “You had no right!”.

“What?” the Doctor replies, sounding honestly puzzled.

“You had no idea what happened to Sherlock! You ran!” he growls – softly, not to disturb his friend’s rest.

“Don’t be ridiculous, John!” the Doctor quips, “I brought John Watson, MD to Sherlock Holmes! _Of course_ he was alright!”.

John is grateful for the vote of confidence, but afraid it might not be completely deserved. Then again, the Doctor has spoilers about pretty much everyone, hasn’t he?

“Let’s get you back,” the Time Lord prompts, and John hurries to comply this time.            

 

The Tardis lands in the sitting room…and Sherlock is stretched on the sofa. All is well in the universe. “John,” he greets, and then, furrowing his brow, “the Tardis?”.

John asks, “Do you see her too, then? I’m not hallucinating?...You didn’t take whatever drug it was too, did you?”.

“Yes, no, of course not,” Sherlock answers, because he wouldn’t give anything recreational to John without his consent, like his friend’s ignorance of the substance implies, and he would need to be lucid if he slipped John anything for an experiment.

“Am I dreaming?” his friend wonders.

Sherlock pinches him. Hard. No, he isn’t. John didn’t try before because it was a dream worth having anyway, and then everything slipped from his mind.

“Did I time travel then? And save you?” the doctor – without capital – inquires.

“Naturally and I don’t know, did you?” Sherlock counters, grinning at the prospect.

“You’re here, I must have,” he shrugs. Because if the Tardis was true, then… “Wait, the BBC is airing a documentary as a scifi?”

“Obviously.”        

**Author's Note:**

> P.S. I’m not sure this is very clear, so I’m putting the timey-wimey tidbits here.  
> Post-series 2 Moran realizes Sherlock is alive and Jim is not, and he’s livid. He meets the Master, and don’t tell me you didn’t guess it was him ( a Master post-everything, who should therefore be time-locked, or dead in the Time War, but we all know no power in the multiverse will keep him parted from his Doctor for long). The Master appreciates him and sees an easy way to attract the Doctor’s attention for a bit of ‘friendly’ (yeah sure) reunion.  
> The Doctor takes John between series 1 and 2 (he probably meant to take him from Moran’s time, but you know the Tardis…).  
> Mycroft was expected to only provide time and place for Master’s date (and later bend to his will and somehow let Master be the power behind the British Government behind the Prime Minister), but he managed to ruin it (he doesn’t take well to being manipulated).  
> Master’s current location: let me know if you see him!   
> The Reapers are the anti-paradox beasts that came for Rose Tyler’s dad not-death, if you didn’t remember (I didn’t; had to search their name).  
> And if you ever write a Master/Mycroft (no matter who tops), let me know so I can read it!


End file.
